


The Camera Never Lies

by ssclassof56



Series: World Enough and Time [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Illya may be ready to give up on love. Can Napoleon and April convince him otherwise?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal's MFU Map Room

“Neither one of us is leaving until you answer my question.” Napoleon leaned back against the door.

From behind his dark-rimmed glasses, Illya’s eyes glinted icily. “And how is this any of your business?”

“I’m CEA, that’s how. Anyone else and it would be a visit to the psychologist. So either talk to me or to Dr. Tremont.”

Illya glared at him silently for a long moment. “Very well. My discussion with April was...illuminating.”

Napoleon pursed his lips and nodded. “I see. In a helpful way?”

Illya bristled. “I was not aware that I needed help.”

Napoleon removed a sheet from the file and waved it. “Your C4 requisitions say otherwise.”

The Russian’s lips thinned, but he did not argue. “Its helpfulness remains to be seen. I must think on her words further.”

“Fair enough.” He returned the paper to the file, then hesitated.

“Is there more?”

“April sent something for you. She said to give it to you when you were in a receptive mood.” Napoleon stepped forward and passed an item across the desk. “I suppose this is the best I can expect.”

Illya tore open one end of the envelope and shook out the contents. A small photo fell into his hand. It was a black and white snapshot, the kind produced by a photobooth, cut away from the rest of the panel. An inscription on the back dated it from eight months earlier. Illya stared at it, his expression indecipherable.

Broderick had walked directly down 42nd street that night and into an arcade, oblivious to the agents tailing him. Amid elbowing crowds, flashing lights, and jangling bells, the Thrush courier stopped at a particular Mutoscope game. The pair from UNCLE ducked into an adjacent photobooth.

Illya sat on the solitary stool and closed the curtain. Faustina settled herself onto his lap, and, with the Russian’s arms wrapped comfortably around her waist, fished his communicator from inside his jacket. After activating it, she held it up before them and draped an arm across his shoulders.

“Come in, Napoleon,” he said into the transceiver.

His partner responded in a surprised tone. “Has Broderick already activated the game?”

“Yes, he did not even try to evade detection. Over-confident, as I told you. He will receive the location of the next drop when he wins. Are you ready to track him?”

“Mmm-hmm. We’ve got the van parked at the corner.”

“All right. I will let you know when he is on the move. Good hunting.”

“Thanks. I hope he continues to be over-confident. I have a late date tonight.”

“At least you will not spend the rest of the evening smelling of stale popcorn and urine,” Illya replied sourly.

“Snob,” Napoleon declared in amusement. “Solo out.”

Faustina, her arms about his shoulders, deactivated the communicator and returned it to his pocket. Illya’s lips twitched at these maneuvers, and he gave her a sidelong glance. She contemplated his blond head for a moment, her warm breath tickling his ear, then asked in her broadest Bronx accent, ‘So, you wanna neck?”

He gave a short laugh. “That was hardly subtle.”

She shrugged. “Girls seldom are these days. If you’re not ready for a direct attack, you can’t call yourself well-trained.”

“True,” he said, nodding. “I do appreciate your efforts in helping keep my ‘Ice Prince’ certification up-to-date.”

“What are friends for?” She gave him a sisterly pat on the shoulder. “And I appreciate that you’re the only man I know who doesn’t turn into an octopus in one of these things.”

He chuckled at the more cunning approach. “That comes from your keeping such low company,” he returned, then tightened his embrace. “A gentleman needs only two arms.”

Faustina walked her fingers up his lapel. “You mean a gentleman as you once were.”

The ear Illya had trained on Broderick confirmed the courier remained at the game. He turned his head to face his other antagonist. “One does not easily abandon the habits of a lifetime.”

A shadow briefly dulled the sparkle in her grey eyes. Then, with a sly grin, she tugged at his earlobe. “You’re cute,” she simpered, her tone designed to exasperate him. He felt out her ticklish rib in retaliation, and Faustina gave a shout of laughter.

Illya braced himself for a counter-attack to the back of his knees, but Faustina only reached for her handbag. Leaning forward, she deposited a coin in the slot. “We’d better take pictures before people get the wrong impression. We don’t need someone calling the manager over.”

Three of the photographs he had seen later in her scrapbook. The first caught his typical curve of the lips, while she smiled seraphically and held two fingers up behind his head. The second, taken just after he caught her, showed him at the apex of an eye-roll, and Faustina with full Cheshire Cat grin. For the third she had commanded funny faces. The fourth picture was a blur, she had said, and had been discarded.

Faustina had lied. The fourth picture, which he now held in his hand, was in perfect focus. His face was turned toward the curtain, watching for Broderick to pass. She in turn was watching him, and the intensity of her expression caused his chest to tighten. The picture slipped from his fingers.

Napoleon reached for the photo, moving slowly in case of objection. None came. He twisted his lips as he gazed at it thoughtfully. “Didn’t Turgenev have some line about a picture worth a thousand words?”

Illya snorted in disgust. “Hardly. Fathers and Sons is a great work of Russian literature, not an advertising slogan.” He quoted the book in its original language, then translated condescendingly, “‘A drawing represents to my eyes what demands ten pages of description in a book.’”

“No offense to Russian literature, pal, but this picture doesn’t need ten pages. Just one page, one sentence, three words. Those three little words every person longs to hear.” He frowned at Illya’s lack of response. “Her heart’s in her eyes.”

Illya laughed harshly. “Those eyes were making promises her mouth would not keep.”

“Pictures don't lie.” Napoleon looked at the photo, more in charity with Faustina than he had been in weeks. “Her heart is yours. Give the rest of her time to catch up.”

Crossing his arms, Illya leaned forward on the desk. “I can understand April’s saying that, but it is odd advice for a CEA to give to his agent.”

Napoleon held the photo out. “That’s advice from your best friend. The CEA will figure out what the hell to do about it when you two have sorted this out.”

With obvious reluctance, Illya took the photo back. “It takes two people to sort something out. And I am not sure how long I am willing to wait.” He considered the picture for a long moment, then with a sigh, returned it to the envelope. His brows lifted as he noticed the notation April had made on the outside. “Luke 21:19.”

Napoleon smiled appreciatively. “Smart girl.”

“What does she mean?”

“It’s a Bible verse, O godless one.” Before Illya could respond, Napoleon quoted from the Latin Vulgate, then translated smugly, “‘In patience possess ye your soul.’”


End file.
